


searching (for what you want me to say)

by brokentombstone



Series: intentions of gold (with my plans) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x01 AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Political Jon Snow, Smart Starks, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, political jon and sansa, season 8 AU, yes together as in they are being political together lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokentombstone/pseuds/brokentombstone
Summary: “I’ll have to repair it,” She breathes out and she knows he must feel her breath on his lips, they’re that close.“Aye,” He lets out the smallest sound, “It did me well in the South. Northern furs to protect me and keep me warm. They made me think of you when I felt all was lost.”--Jon Snow returns to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen. Sansa Stark awaits them.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: intentions of gold (with my plans) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668775
Comments: 40
Kudos: 302





	searching (for what you want me to say)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this!

When she sees Jon grip the Dragon Queen’s waist she feels herself splinter. She recoils, thinking about how he had just been holding her in his arms. Her insides twist and scream for her to do something. To do anything, maybe not something altogether sisterly. She wants Ramsay’s dogs back, for them to rip and destroy… No, she must control herself. She’s frozen, the whole courtyard fixated on her and she’s missing something Jon said, catching the end.

“—my sister Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell,” He finishes, his voice clipped and tense. She meets his eye for a moment and she remembers what he whispered only moments before, when he held her close and his lips were covered by her copper hair. His breath hot and low.

He’d said, “For the pack,” and she had understood. Even if she lost the thought for a moment when she watched him return to her side. When she saw Daenerys latch onto his arm possessively. Letting anyone watching know that she had brought a wolf to heel. Making a mockery of their King, of Sansa’s King, of Jon. And that’s the crux of it, she didn’t care if he was King, he was Jon first. She wanted to wrench Daenerys’ claws off him and hide him away, protect him in the warmth of the castle and close her out. But it could not be.

Jon’s eyes are still imploring her, and she feels them have a conversation without words. She knows she has to move, that she is the Lady of Winterfell. Where is her courtesy? Gods, this woman has been here for mere minutes and she feels exhausted. It’s like King’s Landing all over again, but she’s harder now and she won’t cower, not for a dragon.

So Sansa readjusts her ever present mask and breaks her eyes from Jon. It’s only been a few breaths too long but she feels the tension around her break. As if the entire courtyard lets out a collective gasp of air when she turns herself towards the Dragon Queen. For the first time she looks at the woman before her. Their eyes lock and she feels the appraisal radiating off Daenerys in waves. It is no surprise that she perceives Sansa as a threat. Sansa would be offended if she hadn’t, but if Daenerys is as Queenly as everyone says, then why does she even need to worry about competition here, in the North? Surely she should only think of Sansa as a girl, a girl charged to watch the North while her brother went off to parlay with her majesty.

Cersei never would’ve let Margaery see such blatant weakness. It’s sad really, how Daenerys betrays herself so plainly. She’s no Queen. She is the girl drowning in a foreign place that she doesn’t understand. Does that make Sansa Cersei in this twisted version of events? Maybe. She won’t let Daenerys rip them to shreds, they are a pack of wolves, circling one dragon, she doesn’t stand a chance. No more than Sansa stood a chance in a den of lions, though she survived that, so perhaps Daenerys will survive them.

So no, all that makes sense is someone has told her all about Sansa. And she won’t believe Jon would give this woman any more than he had to. Not if he’s decided to play the game this well. She must hope. He wouldn’t give her insights about Sansa to use against her later. But Sansa spotted Varys and Tyrion trailing the Dragon Queen and she’s sure there have been many hours devoted to dissecting the woman who rules the North, how they both knew her as a young girl, and all the rumours that have swirled through Westeros in the time since her escape.

She can almost imagine the woman before asking them about her, the rumors ranging from absurd to hauntingly true: “She fled her first husband, murdered his nephew, framed him for the crime, and then escaped her second husband, fed him to his own dogs, hung his skins on her chamber walls and then brought the demise of the most powerful man in the realm while securing the loyalty of the Vale? A pretty tale indeed and a she-wolf for sure, but ice melts and I am the blood of the dragon.”

It’s funny, she hasn’t heard this woman speak but she has heard so much about her. And something in Sansa aches. Aches to want to be the one to end her. Maybe that’s dark but Sansa has survived too much to bow to someone like her now. She held Jon captive, for months. At least it’s what Sansa assumes. Based on the limited communications and from parsing the rumours that have reached her in Winterfell. It’s all that makes sense. It’s all that can be. Gods, she needs to speak to Jon.

She’s still looking into Daenerys’ eyes when the Queen speaks.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you,” Daenerys smiles sweetly. Sickly. Sinisterly.

The Dragon Queen paints on a face of serenity but all Sansa sees in her violet eyes is venom. Venom and poison. Come to wreak havoc on them. Come to tear her and her pack apart. Her pack. That she has fought tooth and nail to keep together. Keeping them together now matters more than ever. Perhaps what she says next, surely how she handles things in the weeks to come, will determine the rest of their lives.

So, tightly she speaks, her voice clear despite the dryness of her mouth, “Winterfell is yours, your Grace.”

It’s a bare minimum of courtesy here. Sansa tastes the salt on her tongue and hopes that Daenerys feels it as well. She thinks she must because the look on her face is pained, confused, and boiling below the surface. As if there is a thinly veiled restraint waiting to spread its wings. The wings of a dragon no loner caged.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Sansa acts as coolly as possible towards their guests and doesn’t speak another word towards Daenerys directly. She won’t give her the pleasure of seeing her bow before her, not here, not in Winterfell.

But through it all, the rest of the conversations in the courtyard, showing their guests where they will stay, and the meeting with the lords and the feast that follows, Sansa behaves. Well mostly.

She supposes she loses it once. Inquiring once about the eating habits of Daenerys’ dragons. But it’s nothing really. Petty of her. But it feels good. And despite Daenerys’ returning snark she feels the Lords of the North chuckle with her, she has called out Daenerys’ missteps for everyone to see. What kind of woman can proclaim herself Queen yet not provide food for herself, for her people, even her pets? It’s a joke really.

Sansa is unfocused though. She’s fuzzy. All she wants to do is speak with Jon. She feels depraved. Before he left she felt like this, she had no surefooting. Time with him left her in a daze and their nights left them in a gloom, under a Northern moon that painted them in a pale white veil, hiding them just enough. They would spend nights up talking, about their childhood, about the interim years of hell, about taking the North back, and about the lost Starks. Surprisingly they had spoken little of what was to come. Not in the evenings anyways. They lived in a haze of memories and blurred boundaries.

And Sansa had lived for those nights. Spent over ale and wine. Reminiscing and sharing tales of woe for hours until Jon would force himself back to his chambers. Except for the nights she asked him to stay. They had never spoken of it, of this unspeakable thing between them. But she let Jon think she was still in need. In need of protection and love, even months after she had mostly healed. If that made her a horrible person then so be it. But back on the wall they had shared a bed. Jon reluctant to leave her alone and Sansa terrified of her own shadow, convinced Ramsay would come for her any day. After that it became a habit. Something nobody mentioned when they travelled. When Jon and Sansa shared a tent nobody dared comment.

It was brushed under the table as Jon’s protectiveness and Sansa’s frailty, Ramsay’s torture had been an open secret after his letters arrived. After Sansa had rode in with the Knights of the Vale and appeared so whole, a true Northern daughter, they had to stop. A frail girl no more. Upon returning to Winterfell they made sure, without speaking of it, that everyone knew they were no longer sharing chambers. But sometimes she could convince him to stay.

Even rarer were the nights she went to him. Unable to sleep with the winds howling outside and the shadows in her room reminding her of the long nights Ramsay kept her hidden away, waiting to attack. Those nights she had found solace in Jon’s arms. All the time her face burning with shame for what she knew had begun to bloom in her heart all the while.

To untangle her feelings, her wickedness, well she hadn’t had the time. And then he had been leaving and she had been truly terrified again. Not for herself but for him. She thought of Robb, of her Father and Mother, of Rickon. Of Bran and Arya, who at the time had still not returned. If she lost Jon she would be alone. The Last of the Starks again. Solitary.

So she had prepared him, in all the ways she knew how. They had spent his last nights talking for hours, she told him of everything she could recall of King’s Landing and the Game of Thrones. They spoke endlessly of Varys and Tyrion, what they knew of them and how to read them. They recounted everything that they had ever heard about the Dragon Queen and they went in with a plan. She had felt assured, assured that Jon could do it, even if he doubted himself she felt so certain. Her faith never wavered.

And since he had been gone the fog had lifted. She felt clear and composed but something was cracking inside her. She could think clearly but at a cost. In the moons since he had left she was bereft. Bran and Arya had returned to her but she felt as if she had an overripe lemon stuck in her throat. She could share her joy with nobody. Jon was gone. Bran was deeply changed and Arya was not who she recalled. She still felt so alone. And even now, now that she understands her broken brother more and has reconciled with Arya, she still feels hollow. Littlefinger had done one thing right and it was the undoing of the confidence she had in the only man she had come to trust in so long. But it was Jon, she had to believe.

Pulled out of her thoughts by a sharp and heartless laugh she looks across the room to see Daenerys mouth turn up with glee. Laughing artificially at something Jon had just said. She strokes his arm and Sansa feels herself tense again. Ridiculously. If she knows what she thinks she knows, it’s nothing. And whether it’s nothing or not… She can’t be concerned with it either way.

* * *

Later, after Sansa had stayed carefully sober all night, nursing one glass of ale for hours, she was ready to speak with him. The Dragon Queen was leaving the room finally, clearly a bit tipsy and handled closely by her advisor, Missandei she thinks, and Tyrion. But with horror she sees Jon is following her across the room. Does she expect Jon to join her in her chambers? Here? In the castle of their mother and father? They are not even betrothed.

But with that thought Sansa is brought back to the countless nights her and Jon spent in beds together. Not doing anything illicit but all the same, it was not proper. Not with the thoughts that had raced through her mind on those long nights. These thoughts are wild anyways. Daenerys is Queen, surely she can do whatever she wants, betrothed or not. Who will dare stop her?

But with relief she watches them parting. Jon says something to her, embraces her and whispers in her ear. Not unlike he did earlier to Sansa in the courtyard. She’s suddenly aware of every bone in her body, are they splintering? She thinks they might be. The image is just too close, too similar for her to breathe properly. But then it breaks and Jon is moving back towards the high table. Even across the room she can see Daenerys is pouting but then she’s gone, whisked away by her people.

To her surprise, Jon comes right to her. He has avoided her for nearly the entire day. Spoke those few words in her ear and then paid all his attention to the Dragon Queen. And yet. The moment she left the room he is here, suddenly. Right in front of her.

He nods his head to her.

“I think I am ready to turn in for the night, walk me to my chambers,” He asks politely, no hint of a double meaning or anything lurking underneath but then under his breath so nobody could hope to overhear, “We have much to discuss.”

She gets up quickly and says a few courteous goodnights, then hurries out into the corridor with Jon on her heels. She spares one last look around the room first and notices that she still hasn’t seen Arya for hours, not since before Jon arrived. And at some point someone took Bran out of the hall, it must have been his own request. For some reason the thought makes her heart speed up. Nobody else but the two of them, their first conversation can be open, honest. Without others peering in, even just Bran and Arya. Especially Bran and Arya.

They hurry though the halls, knowing the route so easily. Having memorized Winterfell’s walls ages ago. They could do it in the dark. A chill runs up her spine at the thought. They may have to do just that once the Night King comes.

Just once she tries to ask him something, inconsequential, but he quiets her instantly, “Not here.”

She doesn’t attempt it again.

Then they’re opening the door to her chambers and stepping inside.

The chambermaids have lit a fire and it paints the left of the room interior in a warm glow. But the moon is bright too and it washes the other half of the room in a cool white. It feels all too familiar, of their nights so many months ago now. And she’s suddenly worried that too much has changed, that the leagues that existed in between them for months have put leagues between them now, even in this small room. That there will be a distance they can’t bridge. So much has happened.

But before she can ponder the thought further Jon is closing the door behind them and then enveloping her in his arms.

They stand there half bathed in the glow of the moon, half bathed in the glow of the fire. A dichotomy of ice and fire she thinks. A balance. And she sinks herself into the hug. Embracing him and drawing out the fire in his heart, bringing peace to his mind, him siphoning out the ice in her veins and soothing her soul. She grips him harder, harder than she dared in the courtyard in front of all the people.

And she feels him inhale, breathing her in. She thinks he is smelling her hair, remembering her scent after so many months apart.

“Sansa,” he murmurs, barely audible and her breath hitches in her throat. She feels like she’ll cry if she speaks now. She's waited so long to hear him call her by her name. So long she didn’t even realize she was waiting. Sure he called her Sansa in the courtyard, when introducing her. But to hear the longing now, the rawness, maybe the desire (if she dares) that drips out of him now. It undoes her. She is left ripped open, gaping.

They part slightly. Just gazing at each other for a few moments. And all she can think of is the cackle of the fire, the glare of the moon. Burning and freezing both. This moment singes her in one breath, but freezes her all the same in the next. She can’t decide if she likes the sensation of being burnt and frozen all at once, but of course she does.

“I missed you,” He says and he laughs, his eyes crinkling when he pulls her in for another hug.

“I missed you too,” her voice cracks a bit, “So much.”

And just as suddenly the moment is over. They had lived in bliss for a few agonizing minutes but he breaks the mounting tension in the room like a whip cracking through the air.

He lets her go fully and asks seriously, “What happened to Littlefinger, I didn’t see him.”

She resists the urge to turn away, “He’s no longer a problem.”

“Sansa—” He starts.

“Don’t,” She begs now, “We took care of him.”

Jon looks split apart. She knows he hated him. That he would’ve ripped him limb from limb if she had allowed it.

“We?” He asks weakly and doesn’t take his eyes from her.

“Bran, Arya, and I, yes,” She replies with a lightness she doesn’t feel. She doesn’t want to speak his name. Not here in this room. Not when he had guessed too closely at how she felt _(what do you want that you do not have),_ at the thoughts that went through her head when Jon was around. Littlefinger was poisonous just like Daenerys is now and speaking of him feels like the worst type of sin.

“Did he—did he touch you?” And Jon can barely get the words out. There is something there in his voice that raises her hackles. A possessiveness that makes her inch closer.

“If he did?” She asks, suddenly daring. Wanting Jon to tell her, in all the gory detail what he would do if another man so much as touched her without her consent in Winterfell, in their home, in the wolf den.

Jon lets out a noise somewhere between a choked sob and a half growl. It’s delectable and Sansa revels in it, “Sansa if he… And I wasn’t here. I would never forgive myself.”

“It’s not your fault Jon,” She says soothingly, and she lays a hand on his arm but he pulls away like she burned him, perhaps she did.

He’s walking away from her, towards the window and he stops, “I… provoked him. Just before leaving. I threw him up against a wall and told him, told him if he touched you I would kill him myself. It was reckless. It kept me up. So stupid, to do that and then leave you unprotected. Too brash, too obvious—”

He stops himself suddenly.

Sansa feels lightheaded. The revelation. It unbalances her. Jon is still turned away from her and she can’t help but wonder what about it that is obvious. If he’s referring to this unspoken thing that exists between them. And suddenly she recalls Littlefinger in the courtyard the day Jon left. Out of the corner of her eye watching them. A perfect picture. And it slots into place. He didn’t just think Sansa had depraved feelings for Jon, no he suspected much worse. If she had let him live, if he had been here when Jon returned… It doesn’t matter, she tells herself, he’s dead and took his ghosts with him. Their mistakes are their own now, unattached to anything he thought he knew.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa says, vocalizing her thoughts, “He’s dead and gone. But we are alive and breathing Jon. We take down one enemy only to welcome another into our home. Tell me of her.”

He doesn’t turn right away but Sansa’s voice hadn’t wavered. She is demanding and all encompassing. She refuses to mince words. Not with him, not after all that has passed between them. There’s so little time now.

“She’s her father reborn,” He breathes out and turns towards her, and suddenly Sansa sees the terror on his face. The lines around his eyes fraught with worry. This woman has worn him down and Sansa is ready for a war, “But less mad, she’s frighteningly aware. She knows what she is doing but she doesn’t see the wrongness. She is so convinced she’s divine. Set unto the world to rule, the final Targaryen heir, so ready to restore her family name. But I’ve seen her Sansa. Without the dragons she’s a wisp of a woman. A broken girl riding the story of her family before her. It’s why she clings to power, she’s terrified of losing it. She’s barely hanging on and it will take less than you think to unhinge her.”

Sansa is quiet for a moment. Jon’s eyes are closed by the end of his speech and his honesty allows her to let out a breath she must have been holding since he walked through the gates. It confirms all she thought she knew. So she tries for levity.

“She’s much prettier though,” and Jon doesn’t react, looks confused when his eyes flash open to hers, “than her father I mean.”

And they grin at each other briefly. He gets the joke.

“I don’t care for blondes,” He shrugs and suddenly all the air is out of the room again and Sansa has to know. Has to hear him say it.

“You don’t love her?” She hates how her voice sounds quiet and scared, like she might break if he says he does.

He looks at her incredulously, “Sansa. Did you not just hear me? You think I could love her, after all that I just said? Do you have any faith in me at all?”

Sansa sags with relief, but only on the inside. Outside she is rigid, “You know I do. But there have been rumours, rumours for months now. I have faith in you. But you can’t fault me for asking. You put on quite the show today.”

“At your urging!” He says, his voice going up and his eyes going wide, unbelieving.

He is moving towards her. Breathing heavily all of a sudden.

“Yes!” She matches him, “And I know the dangers of walking the line between acting in love and falling in love Jon, so don’t act as if it is some betrayal to merely wonder, if it was possible after all our months apart, if maybe something had happened!”

They’re both breathing heavily now. Like magnets they’ve circled each other again. Somehow they always end up back here, on the precipice.

It’s Jon who breaks first. His fists unclench and he lets out a long low breath. He turns away from her and takes a few steps away but turns back before he speaks.

“I hate her Sansa,” he speaks in barely a whisper, “Despise her. She’s rotten.”

Sansa closes her eyes. Victory. She hates herself for how that feels, for what the words do to her. But she feels victorious all the same. Wolves protect their own, and Daenerys is not a wolf. Jon is still protecting them, even with half the realm thinking otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” She opens her eyes and speaks honestly “I didn’t know she would be so… unbearable. When you left. I thought it would be easy, that you would only have to go this far if you couldn’t secure her through other means. I never really thought…” She trails off, not letting herself finish the thought.

Jon’s eyes darken. As if reliving the memory makes him recoil, curling up in his own skin.

“It’s true then,” She breathes out, not letting her hurt show. She has no right to be hurt, not when he was the one who had to endure.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. They had all said it for months. That he had bedded the Dragon Queen. But here it is, the irrefutable truth. It makes her feel nothing. She has the confirmation that he despises the woman, but it matters little when she can’t care anyways. When she can’t rush to him and capture him in a—she stops the dangerous thought in its tracks. Too dangerous here in a low lit room, far from prying eyes. She’s already slipped too far under tonight.

“Everything I did, I did for the North. For us. When I heard Bran and Arya had returned I wanted to turn and run to Winterfell but I knew I couldn't. I had to bring her North, it was the only way. I don’t think she would’ve let me leave anyway. She would never say I was her prisoner but we both knew I was,” Jon hangs his head, “You would’ve done it better. I know we talked about you going instead. As much as I abhor the thought of you going there, being alone with her. You would’ve done it cleaner, there would be less mess now.”

Sansa crosses the room then, refusing to hear him say such things. She grabs his hands in hers and he looks up, meets her eyes.

“You are our King, Jon. I hate her for what she’s done to you. Bringing you to kneel before her as if you aren’t a Stark, a son of the North. She kept you on that island because she knew if she let you retreat home you would have too much, too much power and strength, here in the North where our blood burns bright. She fears the strength of wolves and how could she not? You did what you thought was best and acted in the way you could to protect us. Nobody can blame you for that, you’ve sacrificed so much for them. And I’ll rip any northern Lord apart who says otherwise. Hell I already had to when you were gone, they wanted to crown me in your absence,” Sansa speaks in a quick fury.

“A King without a Kingdom,” Jon says sadly but there’s something in his eye that Sansa can’t identify.

“Jon. It doesn’t matter. We will figure this out,” Sansa says and squeezes his hands.

Their hands still connected Jon says, “You’re my Queen, Sansa. Not her. Never her. It should’ve been you. I should’ve made them crown you first. I’ll make sure they crown you when all this is over.”

She is sure he must feel her palms sweating. The words send her heart racing and she swears the air between them is crackling. Pure static. As if the castle could fall around them and they would not even notice.

She laughs, a bit watery and trying to diffuse the tension, “We just have to get our Kingdom back first. We can talk about logistics later.”

And Jon’s eyes dance. He looks mischievous. He drops her hands and leans back on the window sill, “Oh we still have the North. Even if she doesn’t know it.”

Sansa just stares.

He raises his eyebrows and he looks as carefree as she has ever seen him. She can tell suddenly that he’s been desperate to tell her whatever is about to come out of his mouth. And her whole body readies, excited beyond belief at what he seems to be implying.

“I was very careful. You drilled me so much on Westerosi customs. On how you were sure she would be unversed in them, and you were right. You watched the importance of these little intricacies for years at King’s Landing. I’m not very clever,” He sees her roll her eyes but ploughs on, “I’m not Sansa, I don’t have the quick wit you have or the strategic mind you were born with but… well I do know some things. And I never knelt. Not truly. I was laid up in bed recovering from injuries. I pledged myself to her and the North, aye. But there were no witnesses. I couldn’t move out of the bed. I told her I’d bend the knee but…” He’s fully grinning now and Sansa can’t help but grin back. She feels like a little kid on her name day celebration.  
Oh, he’s even better than she could’ve imagined. How could she ever have doubted him. Not clever, gods.

“And nobody ever asked you to kneel for her after that? They just took it at her word,” She asks almost giddily. She’s pacing the room, too keyed up to stay still.

“No, not even Tyrion. They’re all half terrified of her I think, so used to taking her word. We hold all the cards Sansa and we can rip them out from under her at any moment, we just have to trap her. She won’t have any footing to stand on, she won’t even know she’s messed up until we explain, she doesn’t know the importance of kneeling, she doesn’t understand Westeros. Our customs,” And then there’s a wicked glint in his eyes and he continues, “And, I was thinking, Sansa. If she tries to fight us on it, there’s something else. The North. It was never mine to give away. I gave it to you. Dozens of people witnessed that, your claim is just as strong as mine and if it comes to it we can use that against her.”

Sansa’s mouth goes into a tiny little O. She’s struck speechless. It wasn’t even a loophole she had considered, but it was clever. Wickedly clever.

“I won’t steal the North from you,” She says with utter resolve.

“Sansa… If anyone stole it, it was me. I’m not a Stark, not really,” Jon says quietly, less jubilant than he was moments ago.

“Jon,” She says and turns towards him, “You’re part of the pack. I don’t care what your name is. You are the blood of Winterfell. Same as me. Winterfell is all of ours. And maybe we should stop this argument. We can’t steal it from each other when it is all of ours. Arya and Bran’s too. If I need to force my claim to protect the North, to protect you, I will. But not to steal it from you, never that.”

Jon just stares at her. The words she spoke, while she believes them, she is loathe to admit them, it draws attention to their shared blood, to the sin between them. He is unreadable but she thinks there’s love there. Perhaps just a brother’s love for his sister. His lovely, loveless, lovelorn sister who he stares at for a little too long. Who he’s spent one too many nights holding in his bed. Who has spent a little too much time thinking about him in his absence. His sister Sansa. His sister. She must remember that this is what she is, nothing else will do her any good.

“Where is Arya anyways? You told me she was around but she hasn’t made herself known. I’m starting to get a bit offended really,” Jon asks, putting away any of the feelings that were on his face a moment before and perhaps not being all that subtle in his topic change.

“Oh, I’m not sure, she probably just wants to wait to speak privately with you. She’s still as fiery as ever, much more Arya as she was when you knew her than Bran is Bran,” she speaks distractedly.

Unconsciously, she’s moving towards him. He’s wearing the cloak she made nearly a year ago now. She hadn’t noticed before, hadn’t realized. But now she has. And she’s noticed a tear along the shoulder.

All of a sudden she’s in his space and she feels him stop breathing.

She places her hand on the tear, “This is torn.”

“Aye,” He says.

Her head is bent towards the tear. Examining it. And he is looking down at her for once. She turns her head up and they are only inches apart.

“I’ll have to repair it,” She breathes out and she knows he must feel her breath on his lips, they’re that close.

“Aye,” He lets out the smallest sound, “It did me well in the South. Northern furs to protect me and keep me warm. They made me think of you when I felt all was lost.”

Her heart is hammering at this point but they haven’t moved at all. Still locked in this moment. Both waiting for the other to move.

“A week after you left, I went to your rooms and brought your bed’s furs to my own chambers. I missed you so dearly Jon, I thought if you died in the South I would simply perish, that I would simply cease to exist. That one more loss would take me out,” She’s barely breathing but the words are spilling out of her. The admission of the furs is too much. Too explicit. It’s loaded.

But he doesn’t pull away.

His hand is resting lightly on her back suddenly and she feels like if she so much as blinks that the moment will end. Her dress and cloak is between them but she feels as if his palm is burning a hole through the fabric.

“You are the Lady of Winterfell. The future Queen in the North. You would have survived. I would not have you perish for me. You’re much too strong for that Sansa,” He’s staring right into her now and she feels as if he sees all of her.

“It wouldn’t have been worth it. I worried so much you would leave me and that all our fighting would be for nought, without you it would have been for nought,” She can’t stop these confessions from tumbling out of her.

“And here I was, worrying every day about making it back to you. And if you would forgive me for these transgressions when I finally did. You were the torch that led me through the dark, ” They move closer only fractionally. If she moves any further she swears their lips will touch.

“Jon, there’s nothing to forgive,” And she is ready, for the release that will come when their lips meet. She feels him move microscopically closer, pulling her in—

The door slams open.

“They’re here,” Bran says with no emotion.

“Oh thank the gods, I don’t think I could push you around the castle any longer,” comes Arya’s voice from behind him.

Jon and Sansa spring apart. Like two wolves scraping from a fight and then being flung apart, only to circle each other again. They keep circling each other and Sansa can’t help but wonder when one of them will, if they will fall together.

Bran looks expressionless but there is something startled on Arya’s face and it’s obvious she is confused by the predicament they stumbled upon. She appears to be trying to piece it together in her mind.

Sansa feels her whole face burning, her Tully heritage cursing her and her pale skin. She sneaks a glance at Jon and sees his whole body is tense. But then.

“Arya!” And he’s moving across the room to embrace her. Sansa can’t help but think of their own reunion at Castle Black. The differences. The similarities. Adding them up to make them mean something they don’t, or maybe they do. She doesn’t know anymore. Things have always been different between Arya and Jon, than Jon and Sansa. So of course things would be different now too. And the circumstances of their reunions couldn’t be more different. But how much of that means something and how much of it is meaningless?

They whisper words to each other that she doesn’t try and catch. Simply letting them enjoy their reunion while she tries to piece herself back together. But she feels Bran’s eyes burning into her. And she can’t tell if there is judgement there. Or scorn. Or simply nothing but a shell of a boy who was her brother long ago, staring into her past, or her future. She doesn’t know.

She thinks she’s recovered when Arya’s eyes lock on her, still held in Jon’s arms. And she knows Arya saw. Saw them, so close, even just for a moment. Even if she doesn’t understand what she saw she knows she saw something and she’s calculating again. She knows Arya has spent the last months trying to parse out her and Jon’s relationship and how it stands now. She never revealed much to Arya. Felt like she’d be too obvious, reveal too much of how she felt and complicate everything. So she’d kept it simple and vague. Jon hadn’t been back one full day and that was out the window. Seven hells.

Jon lets Arya go and Bran speaks up.

“I think we all have much to discuss now. But before that, I have something of utmost importance to tell all of you. Jon, you may wish to take a seat before I begin,” Bran says, again with no emotion. Only a calming tone and no inflection.

Jon looks puzzled but follows his words. He takes a chair by Sansa’s table. Arya hops onto Sansa’s bed, looking as comfortable as ever. And Sansa moves to take the other chair at her table.

For one burning moment her eyes lock with Jon. It’s the slightest of looks. And they both break eye contact away quickly. Embarrassed by their earlier discovery. Their almost… kiss? Sansa shudders. He is her brother and she would do well to remember it.

She looks out the window and notices it is snowing now when it was not before. It is storming really. Blowing everywhere. And she feels at home. In the warmth of their den, their wolves’ den. She is safe. Winter is here and she has her pack. The Starks have endured worse.

Bran speaks, “I need to tell you a story. A story as old as time and as young as a babe on its name day. A story of dragons and wolves.”

And from that moment, Sansa will recall much later, it begins in earnest.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I wrote a 6k one shot in one sitting because I have wanted to explore the idea of Jon and Sansa planning to trap Daenerys since watching season 7, it always intrigued me so here we are. I might write more for this if there is interest or if I'm inspired but right now it stands alone. For those of you who follow my other story "I feel you move (in distances worth keeping)", there will still be an update on Sunday!
> 
> Comment if you enjoyed this, it means the world :)


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